“Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.”
J. Bishop

The sun is down and the temperature is dropping quickly so I’ve tucked a blanket around my legs to keep me warm as I write.

It’s quiet on the farm tonight. The rain has stopped, the wind has stilled, and the only sound is a gentle tap-tap and occasional peep from the guinea fowl keets in their box in the kitchen. I had to move them into a taller, non-jump-out-able box this week after one made a daring escape and found himself trapped behind a bookshelf. I managed to retrieve the trickster with a prodigiously long set of barbecue tongs, and he’s now back safe and sound with his mates.

It’s well and truly autumn now and the vineyards, orchards, and gardens of the region are in that lovely stage of decline where everything is nodding off before winter, but not quite asleep.

There are still gorgeous flowers blooming amongst rusted petals, curling leaves, and papery husks, and I’ve been taking every possible opportunity to write garden-based stories for the newspaper so I can wander at my leisure through russet and gold beauty.

This week I got to amble through the gardens of the Hokstead Plantation just before they tore out the last of the summer plantings. They were busy finishing up a stunning bouquet of native flowers and greenery, so they let me stroll about to my heart’s content.

It was dark, drizzly, and cool, my favourite kind of autumn weather, and I loved the sculptural beauty of plants losing their leaves and petals and the amazing transition of colours from vibrant pink, red, and yellow to softly burnished rose, burgundy, and bronze.

I explored the nursery, trailing my fingers over the smooth leaves of lemon myrtle, sighing happily at the vibrant puffs of fairy floss flowers high up in the treetops, smiling at the occasional lush blooms putting on one final burst of beauty before the frost arrives.

Autumn gardens always make me feel peaceful because the work is coming to an end and things are ready to be buried under thick layers of compost and mulch and sleep soundly through the winter.

They remind me that not every season is for productivity, some are for sleep, quietness, getting fed, nourished, and rested.

Dear old autumn. I needed that reminder.

This weekend has been a cosy one of good projects balanced with rest, books, art, and reflection.

I made three jars of pear ginger jam and a big pot of ham lentil soup and organised my seeds and art supplies.

I scrubbed floors, installed a new toilet seat, and read “Nicholas St North and the Battle of the Nightmare King” and Darra Goldstein’s Scandinavian cookbook, “Fire + Ice”.

I wood-burned nine wooden spoons, coloured a picture of mushrooms, and bought myself a set of screwdrivers for my toolbox.

As I enter a new week, I look forward to embracing the slower, more peaceful days of autumn, making the most of every opportunity to get outside and bask in the wonders of this most glorious season.

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.
Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you,
and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.”
John Muir